Sweetheart
by Cereza1
Summary: The three times he called her sweetheart, and the one time he actually meant it. (BuffyxDean) (One shot).


Alright. I know that the whole "the three times _, and the one time _" trope is over done. Sorry. It was one of those thoughts that hit my head and I had to write it.

Also I know that I should have been writing the follow up to Shadows of California. Sorry 'bout that. Crazy semester man. This has literally taken me all semester to get this together and I'm still not sure if I'm happy with it.

When is it set? I'm not 100% sure, haha! I got the general feel that this was long after S7 of Buffy. For whatever reason she didn't want to stay with the group and went off solo. For Supernatural that's kinda up to you. My thought was that it's after the show ends and Sam is no longer around. Or maybe it's when Sam is in hell?

Ah hell I dunno. Enjoy it! Haha.

* * *

**Sweetheart**

"You should get out of here, sweetheart. It isn't safe here."

The first time he calls her sweetheart she can't help but roll her eyes. What he saw as simply trying to keep this girl safe, she saw as dismissive and arrogant. That wasn't fair and she knew it; this guy in denim and leather couldn't have possibly known that she wasn't the damsel in distress. Buffy had learned long ago how to put up with people underestimating her, but right now she really didn't feel like arguing with some idiot who was likely to lose his life if he stayed here.

Neither of them realized that they were both in that dark alley for the same reason.

The only thing that got under her skin more than the word "sweetheart" was the way he laughed when she told him that she could take care of herself. It was condescending mixed with scepticism and it made her eye twitch in a way she had not felt since Sunnydale. Who did this guy think he was anyways? She really didn't have time for this.

The stare down may have continued well past sunrise if it hadn't been for the sound of a growl behind them. In a move that was so cliche it almost hurt they both turned to one another exclaiming that the other should get out of there. Dean was already dreading trying to figure out how to keep her safe and take down the Morragh, and neither job sounded terribly enjoyable to him. It wasn't until he saw her swing a rather deadly looking weapon out from underneath her leather trench coat that he realized she wasn't kidding when she told him that he shouldn't worry about her. Briefly he wondered if he needed to worry about himself.

Dean still didn't grasp what this small blonde was capable of until she cleanly sliced through the Morragh's neck in fluid motion. She did it like this was just another day for her; it was as effortless as breathing. She looked a little bored even. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the monster's head unceremoniously landing with a wet thud on the ground - instead his attention stuck on the girl. Dean silently scolded himself for not picking up on the fact that she had a weapon, something John would have reprimanded him for almost immediately. Concealed weapon aside, Dean had to wonder who – or what – this girl was. He was utterly transfixed on this small girl.

She, on the other hand was paying him no attention at all. Instead she had her back to him, inspecting the corpse that was lying on the pavement. Dean's attention was caught as a slight glint bounced off of the ax blade when the girl bent down to get a better look. The blade was impressive, to say the least, but it spoke volumes about the stranger he currently shared this alley with. The blade itself was obviously battle worn, with chips and dings and dents and cracks. There were layers of blood that, no matter what, were not going to be cleaned away. How many battles had it been through to look like that? It had seen better days that was for sure, and the way she held onto the weapon, the way she moved, told Dean that she had as well.

Buffy smirked as she asked what that was about "sweetheart," swinging her blade back underneath her coat.

Dean found himself without words.

"Could you pass me the sugar, sweetheart?"

The second time, he says it because he thought it was funny. He said it to see the anger flash behind her eyes as she tried to pretend it didn't bother her. He said it to see the red spread across her chest as annoyance rushed through her veins. It had been a couple of months since they met and nothing seemed to get under skin like that word. Dean took pleasure in watching her huff as she slid the sugar his way, and his wide grin showed it.

Buffy was much less amused. That word reminded her of every time she had been underestimated and it poked under her skin like a hot iron. Thankfully Dean enjoyed spending most days trying to find new buttons of hers to push, and "sweetheart" had been left unused. Until this morning anyways. Usually Dean looked for the little things that would bug her, but most of it was harmless. A salt shaker lid loosened, a breakfast order brought back incorrectly, naps interrupted, clothing shrunk in the wash, that kinda thing. If Buffy was being honest, she had started to almost enjoy it. Anything was better than the dark days when his brother weighed heavy in his heart.

Those were the days where Dean remained quiet and the life seemed to drain from his eyes. He was a different person those days, one that barely resembled a human being. That's what this life did to people like him - like her, and she knew it. Buffy had seen it happen to a few of the girls back home. Before she left anyways. She often wondered if that's what she would have become if she hadn't found Dean. Those dark days were hard on both of them. Buffy had decided almost from the start that she would gladly take some good natured ribbing if it meant Dean would smile.

In that spirit, Buffy had been doing her best to find some button of Dean's that would get a rise out of him, but so far it was to no avail. She sang along with music on the radio, poorly; she even sang the wrong words on purpose. More than once she bought him the girliest drink on the menu at the bar. Made sure all his showers got cut short. She had even taken to being the world's worst wing-woman. It seemed that he was able to let most anything roll off of his shoulders, and it was entirely disappointing. Buffy vowed that she would find something that drove him absolutely crazy.

It was just a fun little game after all.

"Listen here, sweetheart. There is no way you're doing this."

The third time, the word dripped out of his mouth like venom. He couldn't believe how stubborn she was being. Well he could, and that was the problem. She always disagreed with him if she thought it would get under his skin, but this time she was digging her heels in for a whole different reason. What that reason was, he couldn't figure out, but he was sure it wasn't good enough. If Dean Winchester was willing to admit that this was not a case to take on solo, then why couldn't Buffy?

Sweetheart. She had hated that word for as long as she could remember. She had hated the ways he had said it before, but this was by far the worst use yet and it made her blood boil and her skin prickle. Words were spat back faster than her brain could even comprehend. Words that were better left unsaid; words that neither of them actually meant.

Later, when she looked back on this fight, she would realize how ridiculous it was, but at the time she couldn't help but feel like he was trying to dismiss her again. Like he was trying to hold her hand and treat her like a child. Just because she hadn't been hunting her whole life didn't make her any less capable than he was. They had both faced down bigger and badder monsters than this Cherufe or whatever it was called. She could handle this and how dare he try to tell her otherwise. Her obstinate anger prevented her from really hearing anything he'd had to say. The whole night may have gone differently if she had just taken a minute to listen.

Later, when she looked back on this fight, she would wish that she had slowed down for a minute. Buffy would wish that she thought about what she was saying; what decision she was really making. Her body would later make sure that Buffy knew she made the wrong damn call that night. If he hadn't have used that stupid word, Buffy may have been able to keep her composure. She may have been reasonable. It wouldn't be until later that she'd admit that it wasn't fair to blame Dean for her blowing up, but at the time she was beyond being sensible. What was that Giles always said about keeping a level-head? Count to three and breathe? The whole night may have gone differently if she had just taken a minute to breathe.

Later, when she looked back on this fight, Buffy would regret slamming the door in his face. Even at the time she regretted it. Not because it was immature - okay, maybe a little because of that - and not because it was embarrassing to apologize for when she came back later that night. Not even because it was a complete over reaction on her part. No, it had nothing to do with any of her own feelings about the whole mess. It was the look on his face when she finally returned. It was the same expression he'd worn below his anger and bitterness as they yelled and screamed at one another. How could she have missed that? This whole night may have gone differently if she had just taken a minute to see that look on his face before she stormed off.

The room was dark when she came back hours later that night, leading her to believe that Dean was either asleep or at the bar just down the street. Either way, she figured she'd be able to sneak inside and through the shower long before he could see the blood that had soaked through her shirt. Blood that she wasn't entirely sure of where it was coming from to begin with. Blood that she thought had stopped pouring out of her long ago but now was sure it had not.

Maybe she should have expected to find Dean awake and waiting for her; roles reversed she would have done the same. Buffy flinched when the light turned on, her eyes straining to adjust to the light. They stared at one another in silence, and she found herself surprised to find that there was no rage playing on his features. Instead, there was worry there - a look of real fear. As soon as they made eye contact, his features softened and relief washed over his face.

Buffy opened her mouth to say something, but was halted by strong arms wrapped tight around her waist. Dean pulled her in as close as he could, finding temporary solace in the way her small frame shifted from hesitant and tense to calm and still. For a brief moment, Buffy allowed herself to indulge in the musky smell of gunpowder and whiskey as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Dean's relief was cut short once he realized that there was warm liquid soaking into his shirt. He pulled away and in a mixed effort to hide and protect her injury, Buffy instinctively placed her hand over it - as silly as that was.

His eyes searched out hers and begged for some sort of answer to his unspoken question. She sheepishly shrugged, doing everything she could to avoid his gaze. Buffy waited for the yelling to start, for whatever lecture he had been going over in his head since she slammed the door. She closed her eyes and braced for what was sure to be a hundred times worse than the fight from earlier that night. She waited for the familiar words that would tell her that she had acted childishly - foolishly. What on earth was she thinking, she could have got herself killed. Buffy waited for all those words that she had heard countless times before.

When the silence persisted, Buffy looked up in confusion. Dean was no longer standing in front of her but rummaging through one of the duffel bags they kept by the beds. She watched curiously but quietly as he left the duffle on his bed and crossed back to her. Buffy did not question him even as he placed his hand on her arm and led her to the bed. She wasn't sure of his intentions when he rolled her shirt up to the base of her bra, but still she said not a word.

The sting of vodka spilling over the gash in her side made her abruptly aware of the situation that was unfolding. It was cheap booze and the smell stung her nose almost as much as it stung the tear in her flesh. The entire time he worked Dean stayed silent. His hands moved expertly as fabric wrapped around her small waist, much more gently than Buffy would have ever expected. How many hundreds of times had he done this before? She couldn't help but wonder. She had watched him carefully as he worked, trying to read beyond his empty expression; trying to find some hint as to what he was thinking. It had been to no avail, but for now she was grateful that the bleeding had been staunched. Dean remained silent still, even as he packed away the remaining gauze and alcohol, and Buffy continued to wait for the yelling to start. The waiting was agonizing.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore.

Buffy opened her mouth to question Dean. She wanted him to tell her that he told her so, to yell and scream at her. Really at this point she really just wanted him to say something – anything; this silence was deafening. Dean turned back to her, his eyes glassy. Any words she may have found died in her throat. The two of them sat there, Slayer and hunter, not saying a word, but an entire story was unraveling in front of them.

Then everything clicked.

Realization.

It all happened so fast, lips met lips, hands grasped at waist, at shoulders. Any thought that may have entered their heads to stop what they were doing was quickly abandoned as a moan passed between their mouths, neither sure of who it originated from. Urgency replaced hesitancy as fabric was discarded haphazardly in a desperate effort to feel flesh on flesh. The feeling of cheap cotton sheets came up underneath Buffy as she was pressed backwards by strong arms. The weight of Dean's body pressed on her, ever careful of the freshly bandaged wound. She pressed back, tongue exploring his as fingers intertwined in hers. Legs wrapped at waist; an invitation that Dean answered swiftly. A new connection was made then, and everything that they were before was replaced with whatever they were now. Buffy's head reeled as they moved fluidly together, both abandoning the want for dominance. Dean breathed heavy as he leaned his forehead against hers before seeking out her lips once more. Slick skin pressed closely as they increased their fever pace. Each cautious and reckless movement brought her closer to the edge of reason until she felt herself unfurl below him.

It was the last time they ever had a room with two beds.

"It's okay sweetheart. It's going to be okay."

The fourth time came with great effort and it came out so softly that Buffy wasn't even sure she had heard him right. Despite everything she managed to crack a smile in that moment; it was the least she could do. She could hear it in his voice that this time it was different.

This time he really meant it. He finally meant it, and everything that came with it.

Or maybe he had always meant it, and this was just what it took for them both to realize it. That all those other times he had been like a little boy on the playground, pulling the girls hair because he didn't know how else to get her attention.

Panic welled in her gut as her eyes searched his, desperately searching for that twinkle, that spark of life that she had grown accustomed to. That she had found comfort in time and time again. In this moment, when she needed the comfort most of all, there was none to be found. A small flicker of light still yet burned there, but it dimmed with each passing moment. A smirk, barely recognizable beneath the wash of blood, played at his lips. Buffy knew that smirk well; it had always preceded some smartass comment or joke. Dean's mouth parted in an attempt to live up to expectations, but all he could muster was another spurt of blood as another coughing fit ravaged his body.

His lungs were rapidly filling with blood and Buffy knew it wouldn't be long now. There wasn't much she could do and she had never felt so useless. So helpless. Buffy always knew what to do; she was always the one with a plan. Why was it now, when she was needed the most, that she couldn't do a damn thing? Dean always looked to her for what to do in situations like this. She felt sick to her stomach knowing that she was failing him right now.

Buffy ran her fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to comfort him. She fought against the tears that were caught in her eyes, trying her best to keep a strong front. It was the only thing she could control in that moment. Silently she begged the fates-that-be to let him stay. It wasn't his time; it couldn't be. They couldn't take him, they just couldn't. It had been so long since she had felt like she had somewhere to belong. Since she felt like she was where she was meant to be. Finding Dean had been like coming home - it just took her a while to figure that part out. Now she had and the world was trying to rip him away from her. He was her anchor. He was her peace. His musky smell briefly overpowered the tangy scent of copper, a bitter reminder of what it was like to spend the night in his arms.

His limbs felt heavy as he fought stubbornly against the impending unconsciousness that he could feel tugging at the corners of his mind. Everything was hazy and he was desperately trying to piece together what exactly had happened. Dean remembered entering the alley, his arm comfortably wrapped around her waist, but he couldn't remember why they were here. Or where they were going for that matter. He could smell the crisp night air. Feel the warmth of her form next to him. Hear the removed sound of traffic somewhere behind him as she laughed at whatever it was he had said.

A crash.

A man shoving him away from Buffy.

Buffy screaming.

Dean lurched forward, barreling his whole weight down on the assailant.

Then he smelled copper. Felt the coolness of the pavement against his skin. Heard the sound of a knife clattering to the ground. Then silence.

Buffy's muffled voice penetrated the silence. She sounded so far away. Her voice was shaking as she called to him and he fought to make sense of what she was saying. He became vaguely aware that his head was resting in her lap. His hands grappled up at Buffy, desperately trying to grab hold of her. In his final clouded moments, all he could think was if he could only hold onto her tight enough, that he'd be able to stay. Those green eyes staring at him pulled at every heartstring that he had, and in that moment he felt a warmth sweep through his body. It came as a stark contrast to the cold that had made him bitterly aware that he was dying. Dean could feel himself slipping as the darkness began to push at the edges of his vision. He didn't want to go.

He'd had her for such a short time – too short. In that time she had filled a hole in his life that he had never thought he'd fill; a hole that he hadn't even realized existed in the first place. That dull ache that had existed for most of his life had faded into oblivion, and he knew that she was the reason. Buffy showed him just how much he could really feel. The words to explain how he felt about her did not exist in the English language, of that he was certain. Dean had always rolled his eyes when people were referred to as the "better half," but now he understood with total clarity what that really meant. And Buffy was it. He couldn't let her go.

Her hands wrapped tighter around him, clasping Dean tight as she fought to keep him focused on her. Keep him anchored. Blood soaked through her shirt as tried to find some way to stop the bleeding. The only words Buffy could utter was a plea for him not leave her, spurred on by each ragged breath she could feel below her.

Silently he begged, please let me stay.

Then nothing but blackness rang back.

Buffy's heart wrenched as she felt those ragged breaths stop. Felt his grip loosen. Felt his head drop heavily against her lap. Her entire body froze as she realized what that meant. His name fell from her lips in a quivering whisper. The silence that rang back stretched on relentlessly. Softly she pulled back from Dean. His eyes stared back at her, that small flicker of light extinguished. She swallowed hard, hoping to stave off the flow of tears that had been threatening to spill over. The attempt was in vain as she slumped forward, any control she had now lost. The blood was wiped off of his face before she placed her lips delicately to his lips. He had saved her.

She knew that this was the last time she'd let anyone get away with calling her sweetheart.


End file.
